You certainly have some interesting opinions.

He poured himself a cup of coffee while she looked over her papers.

Ramsey still grooming you to become a good member of his camp?

Oh, hes pushing all the right buttons, saying all the right things. However, Im afraid some of my recent actions arent sitting all that well with him.

You go your own way, Beth, just like always. Youre smarter than all of them. Hell, you should be chief justice.

She put an arm around his thick shoulders. Like maybe you should be president?

He shrugged. I think the U.S. Senate is challenge enough for me. Who knows, this might be the last roundup for yours truly.

She pulled her arm away. We really havent talked about it.

I know. Were both busy. Too many demands on our time. When things settle down, well talk. I think we have to.

You sound serious.

Cant keep on the treadmill forever, Beth.

She let out a troubled laugh. Im afraid I signed on for life.

Good thing about politics. You can always decide not to run again. Or you can lose your seat.

I thought there was a lot more you wanted to accomplish.

Its not going to happen. Too many obstacles. Too many games. To tell you the truth, Im getting kind of tired.

Beth Knight started to say something and then stopped. She had jumped firmly into the game of the Supreme Court. Jordan Knight picked up his coffee and kissed her on the cheek. Go get em, Ms. Justice.

As the senator walked off, she rubbed her face where he had kissed it. She tried to study her papers once more, but found she couldnt. She simply sat there, her mind suddenly whirling in many different directions. *����*����* John Fiske held the photo of himself and his brother. He had sat there for almost twenty minutes with it, not even looking at it for much of that time. Finally he stood it up on his bookcase, went over to the phone and dialed his brothers number. There was no answer and Fiske didnt bother leaving a message. He then called the Supreme Court, but was told Michael was not yet in. He called thirty minutes later and was told by another person that Michael would not be in at all that day. Figures, he thought. He couldnt get hold of his brother when he had at last gotten up the nerve to call him. Was that what it was nerve? He sat down at his desk and tried to work, but his eyes kept stealing over to that photo. Finally, he packed his briefcase, grateful that he had to go to court, grateful to get away from some nagging feelings. In the course of the morning, he had two hearings back to back. One he won convincingly; with the other he was torn apart by the judge, who seemingly took every opportunity to ridicule his legal arguments, while the assistant commonwealth attorney stood by politely, holding back the smiles; you had to maintain the professional facade, because it could be your butt being put through the wringer the next time. Everyone here understood that. Or at least those who stuck with it did. He next went to the Richmond city jail and then the county jail in Henrico to speak with clients. With one, he discussed strategy for the mans upcoming trial. His inmate client offered to go on the witness stand and lie. Sorry, you wont be doing that, Fiske told him. With another client the talk was about the ubiquitous plea bargain. Months, years, decades. How much time? Will I have a shot at parole? Suspended sentence? Help me out, man. I got a woman and kids. I got bizness to take care of. Okay, right. Whats a little murder and mayhem compared to that? With the last client, things took a very different turn. Were not in good shape here, Leon. I think we should plead, Fiske advised.

Nope. We go to trial.

Theyve got two eyewitnesses.

Is that right?

Leon had been charged with the shooting of a child. It had been a dispute between two gangs of skinheads, and the little girl had gotten in the way a fairly common tragedy these days. Well, theyre not going to hurt me if they dont testify, are they?

Why wont they testify? Fiske said evenly. He had been down this road before. How many times as a cop had cases disappeared before his eyes because the witnesses suddenly forgot what they had so clearly seen and remembered before? Leon shrugged. You know, things come up. People dont keep their appointments.

The police took their statements.

Leon gave him a sharp glance. Right, but I get to face people testifying against me, right? Sos you can trip em up on the witness stand, right?

You certainly know your Constitution, Fiske said dryly. He took a deep breath. He was so tired of the game of witness intimidation. Come on, Leon, tell me Im your attorney, its all privileged. Why wont they testify against you?

Leon cracked a smile. You dont need to know.

Yes, I do. I dont need any surprises. You never know what a prosecutor is going to try. Believe me, Ive seen it happen before. If something goes down and Im not prepared for it, your ass could go up the river.

Now Leon looked a little worried. He obviously hadnt thought of that. He rubbed at the swastika on his forearm. Privileged, right? Thats what you said.

Thats right. Fiske leaned forward. Between you, me and God.

Leon laughed. God? Shit, thats a good one. He hunched forward and spoke in a low voice. Got me a couple of friends. They gonna pay a little visit to these witnesses. Make sure they forget their way to the courthouse. Its all set up.

Fiske slumped back. Aw hell, now youve done it.

Done what?

Told me the one damn thing I have to go to the judge with.

What the hell you talking about?

Legally, and ethically, I cant divulge any information given to me by a client.

So, whats the problem? Im your client and I just gave you the damn information.

Right, but you see, theres an important exception to that rule. You just told me about a crime youve planned for the future. Thats the one thing I have to tell the court. I cant let you commit the crime. I have to advise you not to do it. Consider yourself so advised. If youd already done it, wed be okay. What the hell were you thinking about, telling me that? Fiske looked disgusted.

I didnt know that was the law. Shit, I aint no damn lawyer.

Come on, Leon, you know the law better than most lawyers. Now youve gone and screwed up your own case. Now we have to plead.

What the hell do you mean?

If we go to trial and the witnesses dont show, I have to tell the court what you told me. If the witnesses show, your ass is cooked.

Well, then dont you go telling nobody nothing.

Thats not an option, Leon. If I dont and it comes out somehow, I lose my license to practice. And while I like you a lot, no client is worth that. Without my license I dont eat. And you screwed up, man, not me.

I dont believe this shit. I thought you could tell your damn attorney anything.

Ill see what I can do on the plea. Youre going to spend some time in jail, Leon, no way around that. Fiske stood and patted the prisoner on the back. Dont worry, Ill cut you the best deal I can.

As Fiske walked out of the visitors room he smiled for the first time all day. ["C13"]CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Michael Fiske looked up ahead nervously as he drove. His wipers struggled to maintain visibility in the face of the pouring rain. Headed west, he had passed places with names like Pulaski, Bland and even something called Hungry Mothers State Park, which had conjured up in his mind a discomforting vision of huddled masses of women and children begging for food along the parks trails. For a while winds swirling off nearby Big A Mountain buffeted the car. Even though he had been born and raised in Virginia, Fiske had never been west of Roanoke, and he had only ventured there to take the bar exam. Up to this point he had made good time, because the trip had been all highway. Once he had exited Interstate 81 and headed in a northwesterly direction, that had abruptly changed. Now the terrain was rugged and unforgiving, the roads narrow and serpentine. He glanced over at the briefcase next to him on the front seat, drawing a long breath as he did so. He had learned a lot since reading Rufus Harmss plea for help. Harms had murdered a young girl, who was visiting the military base where Harms had been stationed at the end of the Vietnam War. He had been in the stockade at the time but had somehow broken out. There was no motive; it just seemed a random act of violence by a madman. Those facts were uncontroverted. As a Supreme Court clerk, Michael had many information resources to turn to, and he had used all of them in compiling the background facts. However, the military wouldnt acknowledge that such a program as described in Harmss petition even existed. Michael slapped the steering wheel. If only Harms or his attorney had included the letter from the Army in his filing. Michael had finally decided that he needed to hear the account from its source: Rufus Harms. He had tried to do it through channels other than direct confrontation. He had tracked down Samuel Rider through the postal trail, but had received no reply to his calls. Was he the author of the typewritten paper? Michael believed it was a strong possibility. He had called the prison to try to talk with Harms on the phone, but his request had been denied. That had only increased his suspicions. If an innocent man was in prison, it was Michaels job hisduty, he corrected himself to see that that man became free. And there was a final reason for this trip. Some of the names listed in the petition, the people allegedly involved in the little girls death, were names well known to Michael. If it turned out Rufus Harms was telling the truth . . . he shuddered as one nightmarish scenario after another rolled through his thoughts. On the seat next to him was a road atlas and a sheet of written directions he had made up for himself showing precisely the way to the prison. Over the next hour or so, he traveled through miles of back roads and over corroded wooden bridges, blackened by weather and car exhaust, through towns that werent big enough to justify the title, and past battered house trailers tucked into narrow crevices of rock along the foothills of the Appalachians. He was passed by muddy pickup trucks with miniature Confederate flags flapping from radio antennae, and shotguns and deer rifles slung across racks in the rear window. As he drew closer to the prison, the tight, weathered faces of the few people he saw grew more and more taciturn, their eyes filled with a constant, irreversible suspicion. As Michael rounded a curve, the prison facility loomed before him. The stone walls were thick, towering and vast, like a medieval castle transported to this miserably poor stretch of rocky soil. He wondered for a moment if the stone had been quarried by the prisoners into the assemblage of their own tombs. He received his visitors card, passed through the main gate and was then directed to the prisons visitorsparking. He explained his purpose to the guard at the entrance.